


What Happens to Leftover Halloween Candy

by emetsketeers



Series: literally just puke [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emetophilia, M/M, puke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emetsketeers/pseuds/emetsketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis eats too much. Silly goose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens to Leftover Halloween Candy

**Author's Note:**

> Not much to say. First posting here. Seen a distinct lack of kink in the fandom. Unacceptable.
> 
> Please feel free to leave concrit but please do not kinkshame! I tag accurately and if you don't like what you see you shouldn't have clicked it :)

Aramis has eaten way too much candy. He doesn’t want to admit it, though, mostly because Porthos has spent the last two hours telling him ‘you’re eating too much candy’, and he’s spent the past two hours insisting that he isn’t. But he has. He is. He isn’t stopping.

He unwraps a Lion bar, crunches into it tentatively with his front teeth. He and Porthos are curled up on the sofa, tele playing in the background. It’s a few days after Halloween and as always they have leftover candy, having bought way too much. Porthos has eaten a handful over the course of their cuddle session and Aramis has eaten, well. Too damn much.

Aramis finishes off the Lion bar, takes a gulp of beer to help it go down. It doesn’t help much. The bubbles cling in his throat.

“'Mis, will you _stop_?” Porthos snaps, as Aramis’ stomach gurgles angrily.

“It’s Halloween!”

“It isn’t.”

“It just was!”

“And in what world do you celebrate holidays by making yourself sick?”

 _In mine_ , Aramis thinks, but says instead, “I’m not going to make myself sick.”

It’s a challenge now. Definitely he unwraps a fruit and nut bar and gobbles it up. His stomach feels bloated and sour now. There’s a thickness at the back of his throat.

He swallows by sheer willpower. Not a minute later, though, a burp gurgles up, tasting like chocolate, beer, and bile; a piece of nut from the last candy he ate is suddenly in his mouth again. He tries not to whimper but _Christ_ he needs to spit, and he can’t do so without Porthos noticing, so he takes another drink of beer.

His stomach is not happy about this decision. Its walls crash furiously around the massive lump of chocolate he’s consumed, and another spurt of throw-up jumps into his mouth.

Finally Aramis stops eating. He puts aside the unwrapped sweet in his hand and presses a hand to his stomach, knowing that if he puts anything in his mouth right now he’ll puke all over himself, and Porthos, and the sofa too.

Honestly, that’s probably going to happen anyway, but maybe there’s still a chance he can hold it in.

Porthos is pleased that he’s stopped eating. He reaches over and rubs Aramis’ shoulder, then tries to pull him close.

Movement is not kind to Aramis. He freezes, hiccups, and then claps a hand to his mouth.

And then everything is surging up, and Aramis drops to his knees besides the sofa; chocolate and beer and chocolate and more chocolate surge up his throat and over his tongue and he holds the mess in his mouth until Porthos has tossed the rest of the candy to the floor and placed the empty bowl under him. Then he lets it out. The throw-up is chunky, only barely digested, and still tastes alarmingly good. He spits into the bowl. There’s plenty more coming, and, wanting to get it out in as few waves as possible, Aramis presses his hands to his belly and thrusts.

He pukes enormously then, almost sobbing with how good it feels to let the stuff erupt up out of him, and with the promise of how good it will feel to be done. The bowl is full of chocolately brown mess, and Aramis feels a little dizzy knowing it all was inside of him less than a minute before. With this thought, he is horribly nauseous again. He rears up a little, unkinking the workings of his insides, and lets the third burst gush out of him with an edgy moan.

By this point he’s mostly empty, and the bowl is mostly full. He burps, spits, then burps and spits again, making sure there’s nothing more coming, at least for the moment. There isn’t. Aramis sits up and chances a look at Porthos.

But Porthos doesn’t look angry, only sort of sympathetic and amused. He does, however, announce, “I told you so.”

“Can you get me a drink of water?” Aramis rasps.

Porthos does, and Aramis takes a big, almost-painful gulp, then leans forward and lets the water splash back up his throat and into the bowl. It’s barely even puking, more like washing the taste away, but very thoroughly. He takes a smaller sip and keeps this down.

“You’re a mess,” Porthos sighs, and takes the bowl away. Aramis hears the toilet flush, then the shower run, and then Porthos is back, and helping him lie on the sofa.

“Can you bring the bowl back, please?” Aramis whimpers.

“Wouldn’t you rather go to the bathroom?”

“No.” He’s tired, and shaking weakly, and besides that there’s something really luxurious about the notion of throwing up over the edge of the sofa, now that he’s empty enough not to splash that much. Porthos sighs and consents. Aramis arranges himself on the edge, rubbing his aching belly, and Porthos puts the clean bowl on the floor beneath his mouth.

It happens a few times over the next hour: Aramis’ stomach turns, and he heaves, and lifts up to let a little bit of throw-up splatter into the bowl. Nausea aside he feels great. Porthos is sitting on the ground, far away from the bowl, letting him have the whole sofa, but at some point he goes and gets him a blanket and spreads it over his shivering body.

“I can’t believe how ridiculous you are,” he complains, but doesn’t seem to mean it very much. Aramis giggles, and leans over to spit into the bowl again. He should spend every holiday this way.


End file.
